Fighting the FEAR, depression and BDP on a daily basis AND making my own bread. Bring it on 2016….

Tag Archives: schema therapy

3 days into Lent, so many aims and ambitions (most being dietary/health related), but I’m taking it it slowly and starting with the main ones (giving up sugar and alcohol) and aiming to add extras as I progress, in order that I can get a life or something.

I’ve also being tasked with writing a positive message to myself every day (a schema therapy activity) and putting it in a pretty box. To date most haven’t been too inspiring or ambitious (‘Managed not to shriek at benefits people this afternoon – yay me!‘), but today I was proudly able to scrawl ‘I have been to yoga for the first time in 2015′ onto my little pink post-it and pop it into my receptacle.

Progress indeed.

I didn’t like it very much, the yoga class.

It ached, my balance is all fucked up, and even my hands hurt. And when I went into shoulder stand, all the lard I have cultivated on my belly squidged unattractively into pale sausagey wedges, and I felt a surge of hate and disgust infuse my entire being.

How revolting it is. And the more I look at it the more anti veggie/vegan I feel, as let’s face it, at least if someone dines on big slabs of flesh, it’s useful, as unless you really look after your body you end up looking and feeling like a factory farmed heifer. I was watching some footage from the Meatopia fair this afternoon and I thought ‘Yes, that’s it Sista! Donate your piggy body to the next festival! There’s plenty on there for everyone and crackling too!’

My body, for it’s part, is sulking, hence it’s protesting twinges, total inflexibility and generous cultivation of blub. My fault for not coming out of hibernation, gorging on comfort food, indulging my addiction to expensive hot chocolate and watching back to back DVD boxed sets, not to mention gross neglect on all levels.

That’s what I’ve been doing all this time y’know. Watching TV. I can’t really afford to do anything else (yes I know that’s no excuse), and let’s face it, the people who populate HBO TV series have so much more interesting lives than mine.

My current passion is ‘Deadwood’ and I am besotted with the two male leads, anti hero Al Swearengen and Seth Bullock, the latter for rocking a moustache like no other, and very nearly bringing my libido out of it’s coma like state.

Much good that will do me right now, as I wouldn’t wish this blubbery carcass on my worst enemy.

The former however, fascinates me like no other. His anger, toughness and sharp tongue resonates heavily with me and whilst I don’t go around spitting profanity at all and sundry, I sure as hell used to, and then some.

I’ve just finished Season One, and in the first few episodes, I hated him, but having watched the last episode last night, I saw a different side to the homicidal whore house owner, and it had such an impact on me, I watched it twice and replayed the heartbreaking scene between Al and Reverend Green again and again.

These characters seemed in that uniquely intimate moment, when Al did God’s job for him, the two sides of the same coin; One world weary and filled with spleen and hate, the other devoted to his Lord and oh so desperate to believe that he was still in his light and his appalling suffering was not in vain.

And when Swearengen tenderly muttered to the dying priest ‘You can go now, brother’, as my throat closed up, I felt a pang like no other. Whether it was sadness, relief or just sheer envy I know not.

To be sheer conscious and nothing else. To shed this bag of blood, flesh and bones. How freeing that must be!

But that scene touched me and stays with me 24 hours later, as did crippled Jewel dancing in her leg brace with Doc Cochran.

And whilst I am in my own gutter, muddled with medications, looking to movie stars and fictional characters for meaning and inspiration, I know that I at least, unlike poor Reverend Green and Jewel, I can get up out of the puddles, stagger to my feet and move on.

It’s a question of wanting to, really. Maybe I have it too easy. Maybe you have to be physically fucked up or super angry to give a shit about this world. But I’m not allowed my anger anymore, as unlike Al, it did not and does not help me succeed in this world.

But I’m still trying to get to my feet and ease on down the road. In my own feeble, reluctant way.

My home is now on the market, I’m going to try and get back into favour with my body and brain, and hope there is a life worth living ahead of me.

Once upon a time, my philosophy was not that dissimilar to Al’s, and my anger did push me forward in the world, but in the act of trying to manage that part of my nature via therapy makes me more passive, and drumming up passion and the will to live is now ironically harder than ever.

But the notes box is both beautiful and roomy and I’ve still got lots of paper, and I’m at least inching forward towards my destiny.

Ready once again, to face up to the black hats of the world, and take my pain like a man. But also to hope, like the Rev.

So, a month has gone, and despite all of my good 2015 intentions, each days rolls into the next, as uneventful as the one before.

Unless a job comes through.

And then I jump to it because (a) I can, (b) I don’t have to reveal anything about myself and (c) it pays.

But, apart from that, it’s generally a more boring version of Groundhog Day.

I still haven’t gone to yoga. I still haven’t gone to the gym. I still haven’t put my flat on the market. I haven’t written anything, not even my blog.

I have been reading though, and have just finished a book called ‘Life After Life’ by Kate Atkinson where the protagonist keeps coming back and reliving the same life time and time again, a concept which I found pretty horrifying.

I mean I’m willing, well, resigned to sticking this incarnation out, but coming back? I mean surely it’s like the Big Brother house? Once you’re out, you don’t have to go back in?

Or if you do have to come back, can’t you choose another more advantageous person/body to be for your three score years and ten? For a start, I wouldn’t be a woman. Fuck that for a game of soldiers. I didn’t even get to procreate this time.

Or an animal? I’d happily be some kind of four legged creature, ideally in the wild please?

Or even a different woman?

But to come back as me? Again and again and again, fucking up left right and centre, until, on my eightieth incarnation I actually nail it? Maybe.

That’s just fucking mean. Because I know I’m not hitting it out of the ball park this time around.

And I still haven’t really got a plan.

My ad hoc plan is currently living vicariously through the housemates in this year’s Celebrity Big Bro, which is fucked up because (a) it’s shit TV, (b) they’re nearly all even more mental than I am, and (c) I actually found myself arguing with some other freak on Twitter about whether being amused at Perez Hilton’s jibe at Calum Best (‘I’m gonna stick my dick up your ass!) means that I supported rape or not.

Given that I myself was a victim of a real, honest to goodness, pin-you-down-force-cock-in-fanny assault, that rankled somewhat. Especially as it was an insult not a threat, and big butch Calum would squish effete little Mario like a bug if he even glanced in his direction.

So I found myself arguing online on a Sunday night with a complete stranger over some pitiable, pathetic, narcissistic ‘celebrity’ who neither knew I existed and would probably care even less, and that’s when I realised that I could spend the rest of my life doing this wasting shit, and no one would intervene and save me from myself. Not only that, but there were more of my kind out there desperately following and emotionally buying into these crappy shows so that they didn’t have to face how pointless and meaningless their own lives are.

So I closed the conversation and stopped watching reality TV.

Oh and I’m eating! I’m eating loads and turning into a right little butterball, so I now have a goodly layer of fat to protect me, along with my other avoidance and repelling tactics. That should keep the men at bay!

Yes, F-E-A-R is still in da house, peeping nervously from behind the burly, threatening bouncer like frame of my ‘Angry Protector’, whilst his erstwhile brother the ‘Avoidant Protector’ turns on the box, breaks out the boxed sets, shovels cake in my gob, and does everything he can to keep me in the Colditz of my own making.

But unlike those POWs and indeed, unlike those ‘C’ listers in the CBB house, I can actually leave this place if I want to.

And I’d love to round this post off by promising you that I will walk out and stride forth and get involved in my life of my own accord.

But I say every day that tomorrow will be different, but then tomorrow becomes today and all bets are off.

Plus, if I’m gonna have to come back time and time again, what’s the rush?

Honestly I can’t think why it was so long coming, but it’s here, and about time too.

Because I’ve tried, you know? I’ve bowed, I’ve prayed, I’ve meditated. I’ve humbled myself, I’ve turned the other cheek, I’ve allowed myself to be dismissed, ignored, barked at, moved around like a living set piece, downgraded, but the final straw was today and now I want to take down the world.

Cos whilst I’ve been accepting of my new positioning in society, I expect a whole lot more from my shrink. Maybe I’ve been spoilt by Aunty C who treats me like a human being, but if these aunts think I’m going to be treated like a nonentity, they have another thing coming.

These last few days, I’ve kind of given up on everything. You get to the point you’ve been in that broken box at the bottom of a disused lift shaft so long, you do finally figure out that no one is coming, so the only thing to do is accept your fate. Even the sage and loving words of C did nothing to shake me out of this stance, but I did agree that I’d continue with the schema therapy.

Yesterday morning was to be my first one to one with Shrink No. 1. No matter that I was meant to go there come back then go back later that afternoon. What a pain in the arse.

Can we do it just before the group session?

No. 1 looked as surprised and irked as if one of his dissected lab rats had raised it’s damp disinfected head and asked him to go easy with that scalpel there.

No.

Well can we do it on another date?

No. Same fixed stare. Lab rats don’t have rights and therefore don’t get to ask for flexibility.

I’m peeved, make no mistake about that. In my lowly, pitiful life, I still get to challenge, question, reason and yes, negotiate, but I urged myself to go along with it and accept these unspoken terms. What other choice did I have?

So he tells me when we’ll meet and then tells me three times that his assistant will text me confirmation.

But over the next week I hear nothing.

So the day before I text her and ask if it’s still happening.

Silence.

Evidently lab rats aren’t expected to text either. I kind of get that as it would be pretty hard when your little paws are nailed to the bench, but I managed it and the fucking least she could have done was to respond. But nada.

So, with superhuman control on my part, I text her again, not to take her down for her rudeness, but to say that I would assume that it was no longer happening but if it was she needed to give me some notice.

Thence follows one of the grimmest 24 hours where all hope was gone and I wished hard that one of those angry ancient Gods would just raise his massive hand and smash this world to pieces, cos I have had enough.

I slept, ate a little, slept, drank wine, slept again.

I was awoken the next morning at 8:30am by a text message, and even in my hungover, stinking befuddled state, I just knew who and what it was and it was as if that evil hand had shrunk down, reached into my core and turned my tiny, barely flickering pilot light up to max.

“REMINDER: You have an appointment with Shrink No. 1 at 9:30 today in Outpatients. Please do not be late”

Oh man. That bitch wants to thank God that she never had to deliver that message in person as I would have ripped into her like a wounded, half starved cougar.

Fuck you.

FUCK YOU.

This. Arrangement. Is. Over.

And for your information, this is not open to negotiation. Us lab rats are not allowed that kind of freedom, remember?

I may have lost my therapy but I just got my power back.

Sorry Buddha, I’m done with you.

It’s Heisenburg time.

FYI for any pedants who don’t think this song is about anger, I really don’t give a shit. It’s how it speaks to me and that’s what really counts.

Or, more to the point, people who know me, know about me and profess to love me.

I can’t contain the anger see, no matter how I try.

Even if I keep schtum, it twists my mouth, bleeds from my narrowed accusing eyes, and emanates from my core, surrounding me in such a huge miasma of unvented vitriol, I wonder how my hair doesn’t crackle and stand on end.

And whether they know it or not, they sense it.

You see, I may mock these Schema sessions, but it’s only taken three for them to bust through my ‘accepting’ Zen like veneer, and release the Kracken, and since the last meet, I can’t stop the fury. My lying, weasel of an estate agent, the patronising sexist caretaker, a faux Facebook friend, Oscar Pistorius, and subsequently ‘alternative’ comedian Jimmy Carr have all felt the rough of my tongue, and I don’t quite know what to do with myself.

Even before I got to the session, I was bubbling and roiling with resentment, and when I remembered that (a) we were being filmed, (b) I’d consented to this and (c) the fucking camera was pointing in my direction, (ironic given that in different circumstances I’m perfectly happy with being filmed), I was absolutely determined to give not an inch.

Nada.

They prompt me, you see.

Gently and with apparent concern (retch), but I’m not having it.

‘How are people feeling today? Sista, would you like to start?’

‘No.’

‘Ah….’

And everyone shifts uncomfortably in their seats. It’s quite funny really. They’re so grateful to be there and desperate to be ‘cured’, but I’ve been here so many times before, that a ball of wool, bits of felt and sympathetic tones cut no ice with me.

They don’t care about us. We’re just lab rats and something else to put on their illustrious CV’s.

Then they start discussing the ‘Punitive/Demanding Parent’ (close relative to Aunty C’s ‘Bad Parent’ I believe) and that, whilst our parents damaged us, they probably did their best at that time, and when everyone seemed keen to embrace that theory, that is when I cracked.

‘Sorry, I don’t buy that at all.’

Shrink No’s 1 and 2 whip their heads my way and frown.

‘They had a choice. Even if they had a bad childhood, they could have decided to transcend that experience and give their child that which they missed out on. But they didn’t. They decided that if they were hurt, why should things be any easier for us?’

One of my fellow inmates pipes up.

‘Yeah, but that was back in the day and they didn’t know about all, erm, all this then?’

I know what she means and I know she means well. But she’s talking arse.

‘I was dragged up in the North West in the ’60’s and believe me, I know that there was no psychological awareness there when I was a kid. You were either a looney and to be jeered at, or normal and accepted. No one knew about this “Good Parent, Bad Parent” malarky that’s for sure…’

And I mime inverted commas with slightly excessive force and more than a touch of sarcasm.

‘…but my cousin took his shitty childhood and did the opposite to what his father did and became the best parent he could, and all his kids absolutely adore him. See? He had a choice and decided his kids deserved better. Our parents chose the other path.’

‘That’s a fair point actually, and yes, this is sometimes the case’ agreed Shrink No. 1, and the others mumble in acquiescence.

Then I notice another girl is crying.

No. 2 is on it.

‘Bella*, what’s that bringing up for you right now?’

‘I don’t know, I’m…’ then she lets out a shaky sigh and meets my eyes.

‘….I….just don’t like anger’ and she shrugs apologetically.

I feel a bolt of shame lance straight through me, and I am silenced.

I know that I scare people sometimes, without even trying. That said, she should see me when I really flip out. But to be fair, us BPD’s are hypersensitive and I’m sure she senses the molten fury bubbling under my relatively composed facade.

As if reading my mind, No. 1 pipes up with ‘Please remember that this is a safe place people. We are here to take care of you and Bella, I know Sista isn’t angry with you or anyone else in the group.’

I should say something.

‘Yeah, honestly? I think you must be stronger than me if you can forgive and still love your parents. I’m actually the weak one here. And I’m sorry if I made you cry.’

Bella rewards me with a watery smile.

No. 1 then decides to chime in with ‘Believe me Bella, I don’t think Sista is that angry right now. Believe me. I’ve seen her when she’s angry!’

Whaaat? Thanks Doc. I’m now the groups very own Incredible Hulk and everyone will flinch if even my top button strains.

I reward him with a mock scathing sneer, everyone giggles and we move on.

But the shame stays with me. Because the Jolly Green Giant is a mere tantruming toddler when compared to me at large, as I can destroy with my tongue as well as my fists. And I clearly remind Bella of someone who hurt her very much.

I regularly mourn the fact that I am childless, but right now I thank God that I never reproduced, because who knows whether I would have lived up to my own exacting standards or gone classic ‘Mommie Dearest’.

But the anger’s still there. If anything it’s worse.

I tried to do the best for myself and kept a pre arranged trip to the cinema with a ‘close’ friend, I haven’t seen for three weeks just to get me out of the flat.

How hard could it be?

1. Buy tickets

2. Small talk till the ads start

3. Watch the movie

4. Drive him to the station

5. Go home

Quite hard as it happens, as after three weeks silence, as went enter the cinema, he mentions that he’d deducted that I’d had a hard time of late from my posts on Facebook.

<yes, but you still kept your distance hey? funny that….>

I fought to keep control.

‘Honestly Dean? I really don’t want to talk about it, it’s too depressing. Let’s focus on what you’ve been up to?’

Great parry. He filled up the minutes with tales of his full, fulfilling social life until mercifully the trailers started, then the movie commenced.

But oddly my underlying mood clearly seeped into his personal space as unbeknownst to him, his body language clearly communicated his discomfort as throughout the film, he shrank away from me, turned his form in the opposite direction, and even whilst the movie itself was riveting, checked his watch on a regular basis.

When we got out it was late, the pubs were shut so the only option was for us to go to our respective homes.

<not that you’d linger anyway, hey Dean? skint friends are such a bore and you have much more amusing things to do with your time I’ll bet>

‘Wanna lift to the station?’

‘Please!’

Then it went horribly wrong.

‘So what’s actually going on with your flat?’

‘Oh you know estate agents! Full of shit until you sign with them! To cut a long story things ain’t looking good re my great escape and I’m very worried about my future. How are things at work?’

‘But can’t you rent out?’

<fucking drop it will you? drop it, drop it, drop it>

‘Nooo, because I won’t make a profit and won’t get my rent paid.’

‘So, there’s nothing on the job front either? Odd because Steve says there’s load of temp work out there right now?’

<shut up, shut up, shut up….>

And then it all comes tumbling out.

‘I can’t move because there are no interested buyer plus it’s unlikely to sell for enough to get me out of this hell hole. I can’t rent out. I can’t get a job because I’m over 50, bonkers, can’t do full time because i have to work around my Schema Therapy, and everyone I’ve ever worked with, including my FRIENDS have pretty much distanced themselves from me so would not recommend or help me get something. If I stay I’m fucked, if I move I lose my therapy. My bills are bigger than my bank account and I could get repossessed and of course everyone who said I could stay with them is shitting themselves because let’s face it, who wants a depressive and two cats on their sofa?!’

I wink at him mockingly and before he can interject I continue.

‘No one that’s who. It’s like the Budda says, you can never rely on others only yourself. I can’t afford to go out and I can’t afford to stay in. My family like my FRIENDS are lying low just in case I ask anything from them and I’m essentially on my own in all this. There! Think that covers everything. Questions?’

And as I take in his shocked little face by the light of the station lamps, I realise I’ve killed off yet another friendship, or at the very least, drop kicked it into intensive care.

‘I erm, well, I didn’t know things were that bad.’

I smile with faux jollity.

‘Well ya do now!’

We stare at each other.

He doesn’t move.

<get OUT of the fucking car Dean>

‘Erm, I didn’t know given you’ve just been a bit distance the last few weeks…’

I feel my mad Joker grin widen even more.

‘I haven’t been distant Dean! You’re the one who said you’d be too busy to do anything for two weeks! I just didn’t want to crowd you!’

His mouth is kind of moving but the words don’t make it out.

<get. out. of. my. car.>

‘You’re going to miss your train?’

‘OK, yeah, well I’ll….we’ll…’

‘Indeed!’

We air kiss and he opens the door.

‘See ya!’

And I drive away with a feeling of palpable relief, a furious grief and a howl of pain that never seems to end.

Another one bites the dust.

But still the anger roils and boils. I need to find a way to vent this shit before I take down entire cities.

I need to forgive the people who’ve let me down so badly. Or have they? It’s hard to tell when you’re certifiable.

I could be wrong. I could be right.

This anger is the only energy that ever motivates me to do anything. Such a shame it’s a force for evil.

If I ever get to harvest it for the good, that’s when I know I can Rise.

But I ain’t holding my breath.

Ciao for now x

* FYI all names are changed to ensure anonymity, even though I blog under a pseudonom.

Despite things not going so great of late, I was doing OK. I’ve been doing a bit of buddhist meditation and trying to accept my fate and was staying on a relatively even keel, until I went to my first Schema Therapy session.

To clarify, whilst this was my first session, it was the group’s second meeting, because, after all that angst filled waiting, I managed to miss the first one because I’d got the dates mixed up. I’m pretty sure they (the two shrinks) thought I’d done it deliberately but I hadn’t.

One day seems very much like the next when you don’t have a life.

So, when I rocked up last Thursday, they were very effusive when welcoming me to the flock.

But I don’t trust them. Partly because (as the scorpion said to the frog) it’s my nature, and partly because I haven’t forgotten them pretending my financial situation didn’t exist and that this would ensure that I was going to be there for the entire two years. I was quite frankly amazed that someone so intelligent and well qualified would resort to behaving like an ostrich. Well I’ve told ’em and if they still choose to pretend that my imminent departure isn’t happening, that’s their funeral.

Also, the list of participants they showed me were women and there are men in this group. That’s going to be awkward further down the line.

The first, my first, session started with the ‘bubble’ exercise where we had to close our eyes and visualise being in a lovely bubble that none of our worries or anything bad could penetrate and where we were safe, at least for the 90 minutes we were at the hospital.

My friends, there are only so many things that a bubble can repel. And an gang of burly baliffs would smash that motha to pieces, so I stared at the carpet by way of compromise and played along.

We then did this thing with a ball of yarn where we had to say our name wrap the yarn around our hand then throw it to someone else, until everyone was tied together, thus illustrating the unshakable bond between us.

Oh God, how I itched to take the piss out of it, so when they asked us what it looked like, I kept schtum.

But then they had to ask me, of all people, what I saw.

‘It looks like a pentagon.’

‘Ah yes’ enthused Shrink No. 1, ‘I can see that, so it’s like we’re points on a star?’

‘No. A pentagon.’ As used in black masses? Fortunately I managed to keep that bit in my head.

Then, ten minutes in when one of the girls got emotional, Shrink No. 2 broke out some lengths of felt fabric for us to cuddle and link between us to signify softness, and a comforting bond.

What the absolute fuck? Is anyone actually falling for this shit?

Well yes they were. From what i could tell, I was the only cynic amongst them. And that’s when the penny dropped.

Even in an entire group of misfits and outsiders, I’m the outsider.

That’s no mean feat is it? Practically something to be proud of.

Except all I felt was despair.

I have nothing in common with the others. I’m older, from a different area, a different background, and I’ve had lots of therapy over the years, whereas all the jargon, tools and visualisations seem to be new and wonderful to these people.

It’s not their fault but my trust in them is zero. How can I bear my soul here?

On the plus side, I kind of feel that I might be able help them, and in that sense, help myself.

At one stage I pulled out my bottle of water for a drink and copped a worried grin from No. 2, then when one of the girls asked if she could drink from her flask of tea, everyone froze.

‘Um…’ said No. 1, ‘well, what does the rest of the group think?’

Everyone shifted uncomfortably.

‘Yes’ chimed in No. 2, ‘I think this should be a group decision.’ She nodded gravely.

Sorry? It’s green tea, not methadone!

I had to pipe up.

‘I’m sorry but it didn’t even occur to me that drinking wouldn’t be allowed’ I said incredulously ‘I get very dehydrated from my meds, and can’t go 90 minutes without water, so as long as it’s not a can of Guinness, I don’t see what the problem is?’

The group burst out laughing and even the shrinks allowed themselves a faint smile.

‘Yes, well if everyone’s OK with that, we’ll agree that you can bring drinks into the group.’

Oh, goodie, goodie gumdrops. Am I going to have to put my hand up to go wee wees too?

I reported back to Aunty C and she laughed.

‘Try not to rubbish it too much and see what you can get from it.’

I took that on board and congratulated myself on surviving the first session.

Except I haven’t.

Today I watched brave, ballsy Lynda Bellingham’s (British actress) final interview, when she spoke of her incurable bowel cancer and her resigning herself to imminent death, but was planning one last Christmas with her loved ones before popping her clogs.

But it never worked out that way as she died on Sunday.

And here’s me planning the most Scroogy Christmas I can because I feel unloved and let down by my family.

If I had to describe that moment, I don’t think I can do it justice, but I felt a combination of shame, sadness, anger, envy, shame, resentment and pain.

I didn’t cry but I can feel all those unshed tears lodged in my thorax again, and I keep doing those big shaky sighs that you do when you’ve bawled your eyes out.

Maybe it’s a matter of time. I just pray God that it doesn’t happen there.

Yes it’s Pity Party time again, so swig down your vodka and orange (squash), put down your cheese straws and hit the dance floor as I’m just lining up the 12″ version of Colonel Abram’s ‘Trapped’ so you can get down with yo bad self 80’s style.

I can get even more down on mine.

😦

Apols for my absence of late, but I so wanted to have good news for you for my next post, but sadly things have not gone according to plan.

Re my three pronged approach (see Safe as Houses) I’ve done two out of three (which Meatloaf will concur, ain’t bad), but am shit scared to do the latter.

Mainly because my property has been on the market for two weeks now, and I’ve only had one person over to view it.

ONE.

So I can’t even say to my lenders that there’s lots of interest and that I should be out before Christmas and pay you off in full, so right now I am nigh on nostalgic for the days when my biggest worry was which club to go to, and whether my flat mate would ‘borrow’ my favourite tarty, scrunchy body con dress before I got home from work.

Hell, I’m nostalgic for that pitiful fear I had but two weeks ago at the mere thought of selling this place. Little did I know that the market is practically moribund due to (according to the estate agent) concern of how the election might affect interest rates and the imminent arrival of Christmas.

Didn’t tell me that when I listed with them, did he, fucking slimy, bloodsucking twat?

Then I was terrified that I wouldn’t make enough to finance my new life elsewhere. Now I’m shitting bricks and having nightmares about being repossessed, ending up on the streets, and/or having bailiffs take my car.

And before anyone suggests it, I can’t rent it out because I wouldn’t make any profit and I wouldn’t get my rent paid by the government because I’m be a property owner. And no, I couldn’t stay with friends because now it’s critical, everyone’s has gone very quiet and seem to have forgotten their casual ‘Oh you can always come and stay with us’, because, let’s be honest, they never thought it would come to this otherwise they’d have kept their gobs shut.

As for my family, they never made that offer in the first place (no hypocrite they), and are now very much ‘Oh everyone’s in the same boat’ when I showed them the white of my eyes out of sheer desperation.

Well we’re not actually. We’re not even in the same fucking river! No one is going to make you homeless you bastards.

The only good thing about this situation is that you find out who your real friends are.

Trouble is, I don’t appear to have any, so I am trapped, and totally powerless and at the mercy of besuited bankers whom I will have to come clean to, and hope that they give me six months or so to shift this pile and get the hell outta Dodge.

On the plus (?) side, I’ve started Schema Therapy!

Oh boy, now that’s another story.

Stay tuned for another exciting episode of ‘The Fall and Fall of a Failing, Flailing, Fucked Up 50 Something’…..

You can push a person too far, and right now I’m at the end of a very long, frayed rope….

Yesterday, after months of saint like patience and extraordinary self control, I finally snapped tore one the Perkies a new arsehole (in the manner of Rorschach after a particularly trying day) when, on receipt of my desperate plea for timings and information re my schema therapy treatment, she let it slip that the start date had been moved AGAIN, (4 times to date) and my formal written diagnosis of my condition would not be sent out until everyone involved had completed their questionnaire sessions.

‘How do their answers have any bearing on your analysing and sending out mine?’ I asked in reasonable, if slightly strangled tones, moments before I flipped.

‘Well..um…I’m not sure, but I’m calling you back just to say…well…you know…we understand it must be soooo stressful…’

‘Actually I don’t think you do. Because I’ve almost ran out of money and may not be in situ by the time you, sorry, they get their arse in gear and finalise a date.’ ‘Oh no’ she replied in those oh so familiar sickly sweet tones, ‘that must be sooo awful….’

BOOM.

‘You know what? I don’t think you’re getting it. I’ve had to put my flat on the market, I’m down to my last grand, I’ve just had 2 bills that will amount to, oh say around £10K that need paying this year, and I don’t have a fucking job!’

‘Right. Oh. I’m so sorry to….’

‘Sorry but I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want your standardised scripted call back that you make “so they feel acknowledged and listened to” because it’s bullshit. It’s like you’ve recorded the same droning faux sympathetic message and play it down the receiver to all of us, and it’s just not good enough. This is beyond a joke. I’ve been waiting nearly a year for treatment since his nibs charmingly informing me that I was BPD and I’ve had to deal with the fall out of that all on my own (sorry Aunty C) whilst you lot diddle around, putting us through hours and hours of the same stupid fucking questions, intermittently treating us to your best ‘oh dear’ faces in lieu of real empathy, and move the goal posts again, again and again….’

‘Oh, well I….’

‘….and in the meantime we all sit in limbo, either hanging onto our place in society for grim death or mouldering away at home waiting for SOME TANGIBLE SUPPORT….’

‘…yes, I….’

‘..so the very LEAST you owe me is a formal written diagnosis so that at the very likely chance that I’ll be somewhere else by the time you get your act together I’ll have something to present to a medical professional in a new borough, where hopefully they might take it and DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT!!’

‘I’m so sorry but…’

‘Look I know it’s not you, but for God’s sake if you don’t know when it’s going to happen, be HONEST because every time you move the dates, I promise you, it’s like a kick to the stomach to someone like me, and y’know what? Not everyone is as outspoken as me, and let’s face it, the last thing you want is a suicide on your hands? Just saying!’

I don’t remember who hung up, but I do know that afterwards my hands were trembling with rage, but felt curiously released and revitalised. Aunty C (my counsellor) laughed when I told her.

‘Good for you! It’s great to that passion back! You are better off not relying on them, move forward, don’t hang around for them or you’ll be there forever!’

That was yesterday.

Today brought me back down to earth with a thunk.

Another service bill because they ‘under estimated’ last year’s. This is like some kind of conspiracy. How am I going to sell this place and afford somewhere near my friends now? I don’t know whether to explode again or sink into a sludgy puddle of lethargic, defeatist despair.

I swear if I counted Dr Manhattan amongst my close friends, i would happily volunteer to be ‘ink blotted’ right now, then I wouldn’t have to deal with all this shit anymore.

I wouldn’t even notice his fine physique, Billy C jawline or his huge blue willy wafting gently in night air.

Nope. Just splat me dude, then fuck off back to tinkering around on Mars, ta muchly.

I honestly don’t know what’s going to come down on me next, but at this rate, I’ll be homeless. I guess that’s when I’ll find out who my real friends are.

Look out for me sweeping up on my very own desolation row. I’ll be the one that ends up running riot with that broom in the direction of my local mental health facility.

My therapy journey, recovering from Borderline Personality Disorder and Generalized Anxiety Disorder. I write for welldoing.org , for Planet Mindful magazine, and for Muse Magazine Australia, under the name Clara Bridges. Listed in Top Ten Resources for BPD in 2016 by goodtherapy.org.

My therapy journey, recovering from Borderline Personality Disorder and Generalized Anxiety Disorder. I write for welldoing.org , for Planet Mindful magazine, and for Muse Magazine Australia, under the name Clara Bridges. Listed in Top Ten Resources for BPD in 2016 by goodtherapy.org.